


Ending on a Good Note.

by MayaAodhan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, MusicanAU!Supernatural, Pianist!Castiel, cellist!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayaAodhan/pseuds/MayaAodhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clash between Castiel Novak, visiting virtuoso pianist with the New York Philharmonic, and Dean Winchester, principal cellist with the Seattle Symphony was already the stuff of legends, spoken of between the first and second violins with quiet whispers, with laughter by the other cellists, and with awe by the chorus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ending on a Good Note.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a drabble. I will go back to writing Taming, I have just been so inundated at work. Plus, it was my birthday on Monday :)

The clash between Castiel Novak, visiting virtuoso pianist with the New York Philharmonic, and Dean Winchester, principal cellist with the Seattle Symphony was already the stuff of legends, spoken of between the first and second violins with quiet whispers, with laughter by the other cellists, and with awe by the chorus.

Day one, Castiel blinked sleepily behind thick rimmed glasses as he stared around at the at the seated orchestra in the vast rehearsal room. He took in their range of garb, from jeans and ragged shirts with ironic sayings, to sleekly cut pants and modish sweaters. Castiel’s own clothing of an immaculately tailored suit, never out of place in fashion conscious New York, set him apart here immediately.

The Music Director was gesturing distractedly, introducing Castiel in general to group.

“This is Castiel Novak. Joining us from NY Philharmonic for the next few months. Prior to that he has played with the Berlin Philharmonic, the London Symphony and the Moscow Philharmonic.”

Dean Winchester grinned as he studied the bright blue eyes, blinking myopically at them all, the suit, the rigid posture and the firmly slicked hair without a strand out of place. Dean ran a hand through his own cropped, untidy brown hair, and linked his hands behind his head.

“Looks a bit like a Rodeo Drive fish outta water, doesn’t he?” he drawled in an aside to Jo Harvelle, the pretty blonde viola player he had dated off and on for the past few years. Lately it was off, because she was dating a guy in the chorus.

“He’s cute,” she said in murmured reply.

“Not my type,” Dean drawled and glanced back to the front as the music director demanded their attention. He met Castiel’s narrowed gaze. Even through the lenses of those solid glasses, he could see the coldness in those bright blue eyes and he was a little discomfitted. The guy must have heard his comment. To cover his awkwardness, he grinned cheekily at the guy.

Castiel’s admittedly gorgeous lips curled in a disgusted sneer as he sat down at the front, turning his back on Dean.

Dean glanced back at Jo. “Oops.” He tried for nonchalance.

“You done screwed that up, buddy.” Jo patted him on the knee.

He shrugged.

 

Week one had the musical director informing them that the next performance would include Beethoven’s Triple Concerto - which meant Castiel, Dean and the first violinist would have to work together.

Castiel’s playing was precise, intense and without a single fault that Dean could hear. And he had to admit that it made his playing was better. Castiel got it right the first time, every time. He was even trying to make it a compliment when he was packing his cello away at the end of rehearsal and was saying to his friend Sebastien, “Novak is like a robot.”

He glanced up, and realised that Castiel, his arms filled with sheafs of music, was standing there, holding out the score toward Dean. His arm lowered and he tossed the papers down on the ground beside Dean.

“I can assure you,” Castiel said, his voice low, gravelled and angry. “I am not a robot, Mister Winchester.” He strode off, back rigid, his free hand buried deep into the pocket of the expensive wool coat he had just put on.

“Shit.” Dean squinted his embarrassment, staring down at the papers riffling against his boot. He peered up at Sebastien, who was watching him with amusement.

“Bit harsh, Dean.”

“I didn’t mean it like...that,” Dean complained. “But come on. He plays like...like…” He waved his hands.

“Like he doesn’t know what making a mistake sounds like.”

Dean deflated a little. “Yeah.”

 

The following week, the tension was obvious. Castiel wouldn’t acknowledge Dean aside from giving him the briefest notes, which were few. Dean was damn good as well, and the Triple Concerto was one he knew well.

During their fourth rehearsal of the day, everyone was weary and Dean leaned his forehead against the scroll of his cello, eyes closed, listening to the rise and fall of the sound that soared in the auditorium. He nodded his head slowly to the rhythm of the notes, and when he was a handful a bars from where he would draw his bow across the strings, he opened his eyes and studied Castiel’s face.

He wondered if Castiel knew he wore the passion for his music so openly. His eyes smiled, even if his lips did not. His mouth moved constantly, marking time. He watched as the light played over Castiel’s cheekbones as his body swayed slightly. He could see rumpled lines through the thick dark hair as though Castiel had run his hands through it. Castiel’s tongue slid out and moistened his dry lips. That was pretty hot, Dean had to admit.

And Dean drew his bow precisely at the right time, eyes fixed on Castiel, not on the score, and as such, met his brilliant gaze. Castiel’s brows quirked together in the slightest frown, a moment before Dean grinned and tipped him a wink.

Castiel hit the first sour note anyone had heard from his playing in years. His eyes widened with horror. Dean watched with growing consternation as a second error occurred, then a whole string of them. Dean stilled his bow, and swallowed, as he watched the conductor tap his baton against the lecturn.

“That was...terrible. Let’s take a break everyone. Twenty minutes.”

Castiel’s chin was on his chest, his hands curled in his lap, his eyes closed.

Dean put his cello on its stand and stood up. He headed for Castiel, aware several pairs of eyes were on him, watching avidly.

“Hey, Cas, look, I’m sorry...I…” he began.

Castiel’s chin snapped up, his eyes like chips of ice that slashed at Dean. “Leave me the hell alone, Winchester. I haven’t done a damn thing to you.” His voice was a rasping snarl. “Leave me the hell alone.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Sure. Whatever, man. You got it.” He held up his hands in mocking defeat and retreated back. Castiel stood from his stool and strode out of the auditorium. Dean watched him go, his arms crossed over his chest.

 

When they returned again, Castiel was back behind the grand piano. He did not meet anyone’s eyes, merely sat, withdrawn, gaze fixed to the keys. The final rehearsal went off perfectly. The conductor nodded with approval and released the orchestra.

Castiel merely gathered his score and headed out backstage.

Dean felt like a total heel.

The music director approached as he was hefting his case.

“What was that about with Mr Novak, Dean?”

“Something I should have handled better, sir.” Dean’s face scrunched in a moue of regret.

“Fix it. You play better when that boy is around. I will not have such obvious dissent in my orchestra.”

Dean just nodded.

 

The next couple of days were impossible for Dean to get Castiel alone. He came and went during rehearsals with barely a word, speaking only to the first violin and to Dean not at all. He wouldn’t even look at him.

Dean tried to pretend it didn’t worry him, but he knew he had to make it right. The whole damn lot of them were whispering behind his back. Opening night was apparently sold out, Castiel’s name and face plastered all over the front of house and in businesses throughout downtown Seattle.

The publicity shot captured him with the faintest scruff of beard, his chin tilting proudly, his bright blue eyes enigmatic and powerful. A bit of gentle teasing from the violins had Castiel blushing furiously, shoving his hands in his pockets as they waited backstage for the chorus to finish their rehearsal.

Dean took the opportunity to sidle closer, his own hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey,” he said.

Castiel looked at him briefly, before his gaze slid away to study a noticeboard. “Yes?”

“I’m a jerk.”

Castiel frowned, and narrowed his eyes. “It would seem.”

Dean shifted. This wasn’t going right. “And I’m sorry I was a jerk toward you.”

“Alright.”

The doors opened, and the orchestra started filing in. Castiel followed them one step before a hand curling around his bicep stayed his departure. He tensed. Dean dropped his hand.

“You’re good. Really good. You make us all sound a lot better. I have never played like this in my life.”

Castiel’s jaw visibly clenched at Dean’s words. His breath slid out. “Thank you.”

 

Dean took up his seat across the stage. The conductor had his baton poised, sliding his gaze around each person, before resting on Castiel. Castiel nodded.

The first violin raised his instrument and the music began. With nothing to do for the first segment, Castiel sat with his hands neatly folded in his lap, his fingers flexing slowly. Dean watched his face. Then as the cello part began, Dean raised his bow, watching the musical score.

He glanced up at the conductor, and realised that Castiel was watching him.

Dean smiled. Not a teasing grin. A real, actual smile.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth lifted in response, his eyes crinkling slightly.

Dean ignored the warm coil that settled in his gut and focused on the music.

 

At the end of rehearsal, Castiel didn’t scuttle away as he usually did. He was talking with the viola section, his voice a low rumble in the perfect acoustics of the auditorium. Dean kept shooting him glances and when he realised what he was doing he snarled at himself.

He hefted his precious Baby in her solid case and headed out.

“Dean? Wait up one moment.” Castiel’s call had him pausing, and glancing over.

“Yeah?” Dean waited, telling himself to act chill. “Did I do something wrong in the rehearsal?”

“What?” Castiel frowned briefly, then shook his head. “No.”

Silence descended for a moment. Before either could break it, the last of the brass section headed out, lugging their cases. Dean had to take a few paces back to allow them all to pass. He grinned at Castiel as quiet once again descended.

“So what were you going to say?”

“Coffee?” Castiel managed, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry?” Dean blinked, surprised.

“We got off on the wrong foot.” Castiel gestured helplessly. “My people skills are a little rusty. I guess I felt …” His voice trailed off.

“Attacked on all sides.” Dean shoved his hand into his pocket, and grimaced.

“I was going to say ‘out of sorts’.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “So...coffee?”

“If you would like to get some. With me. As a peace offering. Now?”

“You got it. Just want to store my Baby.”

“Your...baby?” Castiel quirked a brow.

Dean patted his cello affectionately. “She’s my Baby. I look after her, she looks after me.”

“You are a strange man, Dean Winchester.”

Dean just laughed again.

Castiel checked his watch. “I live near here. You store your...baby, I will dump my music at home, meet you at the coffee shop just down the street? I think it’s called Sugar and Spice?”

“You got it.” Dean flicked a salute.

 

Dean sat at the two top he had managed to snag when a pair of hipsters headed off. He ordered a couple of plain flat whites. Figured if Cas didn’t like it, he could always down another one. He lived off coffee. He took a deep draught and glanced up when the bell over the door rang. He dropped his gaze back to the creamy surface of his coffee. He frowned. Looked up again. Holy hell.

“Cas?” He blinked.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel took the seat opposite. “This one mine?” He gestured at the untouched cup between them.  When Dean didn’t reply, he looked up. “Dean?”

Castiel was dressed in a tight black t-shirt with the Led Zeppelin angel across his chest. A black leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders, tight black jeans. Not to mention the sex hair. The wind outside had given him a freshly fucked look.  

Dean cleared his throat. “You look..uhh...different.”

Castiel glanced down at himself. “I do? Good different, I hope.”

“Yeah. I thought you lived in that suit.”

Castiel rose his brows in surprise. “That’s what I wear to work, Dean. I hardly dress like that when I go out.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Right. Yes. Makes sense.”

“I realise it is a little more casual here, but it is a habit I find difficult to break. And my suits are comfortable, I am familiar with how to play in them.” Castiel ran his thumb over the edge of his cup and sucked the foam into his mouth, kissing the flesh.

Dean watched him, and wanted to smack his head against the solid wood tabletop.

“You are behaving quite oddly, Dean.” Castiel pursed those sensual lips thoughtfully.

“I know.” Dean pressed his fingers against his temple.

“Do you have a headache?” Castiel leaned forward, touching his forearm lightly in concern.

“No...yes.” Dean groaned. “I’m fine.” He grimaced, took a calming sip of his coffee. “Look. Cas. Sorry. It has recently come to my attention that I actually find you incredibly attractive. So if I’m acting like a complete moron, that’s why. I tend to turn into a fumbling idiot around people I actually seem to like.”

“I see.” Castiel withdrew his hand, and fidgeted with his coffee cup. He stared at the contents.

“Look, man. It’s alright. I didn’t tell you because I’m asking you out or anything.” Dean linked his hands in front of him.

“Just processing for a moment. And need I remind you that I asked you out, Dean.” Castiel reminded him.

“Well, yeah...but to mend bridges or whatever, right?”

“With the man whose green eyes caused me to damn well screw up a rehearsal. I don’t do that. Ever”

Dean grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. I was a dick.”

“Yes, well.” Castiel’s lips curved in a smile. “I, nonetheless, found you incredibly attractive. So I asked you out.”

“You didn’t even know if I was into guys…” Dean protested, wondering how this had turned on him.

“On that first day, you said I wasn’t your type. That meant at some point, some other guy or guys was possibly your type.”

Dean grinned. “Perceptive.”

“So shall we call this a date?” Castiel asked coolly.

Dean held out his hand, palm up, across the table. “Yeah.”

Castiel’s fingers entwined with his.

 

A few mornings later, Dean stretched, enjoying the slide of expensive cotton sheets over his skin. He heard the distant sound of Bach and tossing back the covers, he got out of bed. After yanking on his jeans, which he found folded neatly on a chair after he had pulled them off in a hurry the previous evening, he padded on bare feet toward the practice room. He felt stiff and a little sore as he headed downstairs.

The music room was soundproofed to the rest of the house, though the french doors opened into a tiny garden, which were thrown open to let in the morning sunlight. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, and watched.

Cas played, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants. Lean muscle bunched and played over his back and shoulders, as his lean fingers drew magical sound from the baby grand piano. His hair hung in untidy strands over his brow. It was the hottest damn thing Dean had ever seen, and they had pushed all the right buttons the previous evening.

He watched the dark wing tattoos, that he had discovered when he had yanked Castiel’s shirt over his head, flex and coil as Cas played. He had kissed the delicately rendered feathers, tasted the sweat on the smooth, heated skin as he had thrust into him.

Castiel’s playing hitched as Dean trailed his fingertips over the arch and swirl of the musical score that circled his right bicep. He tilted his head back and a smile curved his lips.

“Good morning.”

Dean loved that raspy rumble. It was fast becoming his favourite sound. He silently apologised to Haydn. He leaned down and kissed Castiel on the mouth. The playing stopped entirely as Cas curved those strong, knowing fingers over Dean’s cheek, and skimmed over his bare ribs.

“I will be done here shortly.” Castiel’s thumb traced Dean’s jaw.

“Coffee?”

“Definitely.”

 

Now the orchestra gossiped about the hot looks their principal cellist kept throwing their pianist. And while the pianist tried to maintain some decorum, it was plainly obvious the two were fucking like bunnies. Bets were thrown out, money was exchanged.

Jo won when Dean moved in with Castiel after a couple of months from his dingy little apartment.

Sebastien won a cool hundred when they announced their engagement within the year.

The musical director just sighed. He almost preferred the icy silences. Almost.


End file.
